Livinghigh: Smoke
Monday, May 09, 2005
Livinghigh was here at 7:55 PM /



Smoke

Numb.

I would like to say catty, but words fail me. I stay... inert. I remain... suspended. Yatri in my ears. Funky Guru in my soul. Tales of a rave broken and busted in my memory.

"So what happened?"

"The cops came, man!"

" - This guy had contacts - so he got on the podium and told us to throw our pills away - "

"- I had two pills in my pocket. I'd bought them cuz they were so cheap!"

"- I threw them away - and then the cops came."

"That's it?"

"Yea. hahahahahaha"

"Would have made a more interesting story if you'd been busted and spent the night in a lock-up."

"hahahahaha."

Bad memories.

Of someone I wanted to get close to, smoking weed. Every night. I kept feeling old, then. Kept feeling as if I was not enough. There was something I couldn't give. Something the weed could. I became an expert at knowing how to roll a joint. Get the tobacco out, faint smell of something alien to my virgin nostrils. Get the weed out - slight whiff, slight jolt. Pack it all in, roll the paper, lick the ends, make the saliva stick like a shiny heart sticker. Flick the lighter and burst of flame - I lost my fear of fire then. Watch the wisps of smoke. The look of surreal calm come over a face. Eyes quiver, close, tremble, lips part and crease and smile - "Kiss me, babe". And I would. Though I would hate the taste.

I would kiss.

"Would have made a more interesting story if you'd been busted and spent the night in a lock-up."

"hahahahaha."


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